


Resurrector

by tielan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he wishes he’d stayed dead. No grief, no guilt, no anger at what happened to him, at what he was powerless to prevent. They took his body and stole his will and indentured his future, and even the Black Widows were permitted to choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurrector

**Author's Note:**

> a.k.a. "Sebastian Stan, how DARE you tuxedo like that, dammit."

  
  


Steve is fretting over him, of course. As though The Winter Soldier hasn’t attended a thousand of these things before, playing the tall, dark, and mysterious stranger in the whirl of people and the rush of lights, before becoming the monster behind the curtain.

His vision narrows, dark spots against his eyes.

 _You’re not the Soldier here,_ he tells himself, breathing carefully. _Not unless you choose it._

“Buck,” Steve says, waving a hand in front of his eyes. Bucky swats the hand away, absently noting that the recent fixes to the arm were a little rough, and the shirt is catching on a sharp edge of one of the segments. “Here and now, buddy. Are you–? Do you need–?”

“Rogers.” Hill doesn’t look up from her tablet, but her hand reaches out and grips Steve’s thigh. “Don’t be a mother hen steamroller. He’s a big boy, he can take care of himself.”

Bucky nearly chokes. _Mother Hen Steamroller_ just about perfectly describes Steve.

“I don’t even wanna know how you know he’s a big boy.”

Bucky stifles his laugh as Hill actually hears what Steve has said. Then blinks when she gives Steve a look so arch it’s practically an engraved invitation. “Maybe I’m a supersoldier groupie, Rogers.”

“So you’re only with me for my…muscles?”

“You had doubts?” The hand on his leg strokes gently up his thigh, a trailing caress that has Steve’s eyes hazing over. And if Bucky was capable of blushing anymore, he would, because the look that sizzles between the two of them is _intimate_ , never mind that they’re maybe five heartbeats away from turning him into an explicit voyeur if he’s reading Hill’s expression right.

Bucky coughs. “Uh, guys. Third wheel here.”

The look she gives him is one that he would never have expected to see on Hill’s face – wicked mischief. “Maybe I want a witness.”

Before Bucky’s brain can quite freeze at the thought, Steve’s arm snakes around Maria’s waist, pulling her across the seat. “No witnesses. Not this time.”

“Not _this_ time?” The skirt of her dress has ridden high over black stockings – Bucky can see the lace tops peeking below her hem, and imagines them clinging to long, pale thighs as Hill continues, “Does that mean you had witnesses on a previous occasion? Or that you’d have witnesses some _other_ time?”

“Yes,” Steve says firmly. “And no. No witnesses with you. Ever.”

“Denied,” Bucky drawls as they pull up outside the presentation hall. “And we’re here.”

“You go ahead,” Hill tells him, not moving from Steve’s side. “We’ll be a few minutes behind.”

“ _Just_ a few minutes?”

“Bucky, get _out_.”

He goes out and closes the limousine door on them.

Things are what they are, and none of what happened to him is Steve’s fault, not by a long shot. But, sometimes, when he sees all the things Steve has, he can’t help the little nibble of something a little stronger than wistfulness, a little harder than mere jealousy.

Behind him, the cheers rise – doubtless Steve getting out of the limo, helping Hill out, punctiliously correct. Not lovers in public, of course; colleagues, the hero with his serious smile and his handler with the eyes like ice.

And Bucky walks through the crowd barely noticed, past the throng of fans and photographers, past the guests and the diplomats, a revenant of a man long since dead.

Sometimes he wishes he’d stayed dead. No grief, no guilt, no anger at what happened to him, at what he was powerless to prevent. They took his body and stole his will and indentured his future, and even the Black Widows were permitted to choose.

The Winter Soldier was made, and had neither say nor nay in his making.

 _You’re brooding, Barnes,_ he says as he slips into the ballroom behind a clucking, chattering passel of people.

But how do you resurrect a man long gone?

It’s the colour that catches his eye: rich, royal blue that clings to her figure. Not quite like a screen siren of his childhood, too slim and straight and lean, although the Marcel waves are – well, there’s too much riot in the profusion of gold, not sleek enough for style back in those days. Then again, this is no languorous dame but a woman of purpose and wit and will. The glitter of her eyes is bright as gunmetal, even across the room, as she sees him and heads towards him.

Does he smile? Does he frown? He doesn’t know. He can’t think.

But he watches her approach, the curve of her lips as sharp as a knife, and feels something in him warm when she leans over to kiss his cheek – just two old friends meeting.

“Bucky.”

“Sharon.”

He leans into her touch, tilting his cheek against her. Not a kiss, not quite a nuzzle, but…contact. Gentleness. _Intimacy_.

And when he draws back to look into her eyes – a little startled, a little wary, but accepting – Bucky wonders if this is how it feels to be resurrected. 


End file.
